


The Company of Wolves

by expected_aberrance



Series: Facets [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Humor, Mild Daddy Kink, Minor Violence, Obsession, Organized Crime, Possessive Behavior, Secret Relationship, Sibling Bonding, Tattoos, always be creepin'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-11-05 01:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11003373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expected_aberrance/pseuds/expected_aberrance
Summary: Sequel to "Knowledge." Lighter and fluffier than "A Poison Tree."“Well, it could be worse.”Sansa paused in wiping off the clots of blood dripping from Petyr’s nose to look down at the growing crimson stain adorning his white shirt, paler than it would be if they hadn’t been soaked to the bone, listened to the crescendo of sirens approaching to her right, and glanced at the fire consuming the most venerable (and evidently, flammable) restaurant in King’s Landing to her left. She scoffed. “In what possible way could it have turned out worse than this?” A crescendo of shattering glass punctuated her statement as the beautiful facade finally succumbed to the flames. The huddled masses of patrons and staff around them in varying degrees of distress drew back further from the burning building.“No one actually died."





	1. Prelude: In Media Res

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 
> 
>   
> 

“Well, it could be worse.”

Sansa paused in wiping off the clots of blood dripping from Petyr’s nose to look down at the growing crimson stain adorning his white shirt, paler than it would be if they hadn’t been soaked to the bone, listened to the crescendo of sirens approaching to her right, and glanced at the fire consuming the most venerable (and evidently, flammable) restaurant in King’s Landing to her left. She scoffed. “In what possible way could it have turned out worse than this?” A crescendo of shattering glass punctuated her statement as the beautiful facade finally succumbed to the flames. The huddled masses of patrons and staff around them in varying degrees of distress drew back further from the burning building.  

“No one actually died,” Petyr countered, voice stuffy, probably from a combination of blood and swelling. 

She looked over his shoulder at her mother and father leaning against a bench a few feet away. Her mother was simultaneously trying to keep her father from pulling out the fork buried in his right thigh and hold him back from his goal of breaking every other bone in his future son-in-law’s face. Ned Stark made do by glaring daggers at them through the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. Additionally, though her mother had been too occupied with trying to prevent her father from making a scene to mete out her own brand of vengeance, it likely represented merely a stay of a execution rather than pardon for Petyr's imperilled testicles. 

“Yet,” she replied darkly.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t hit the artery,” he tried to reassure her. 

“That’s not what I meant.” She turned back to him, and noticed a glazed look in his eyes that on anyone else she would have called almost dreamy. It was most disturbing. “What?”

“The flames reflecting off your hair. ‘S’lovely.” She noticed his accent deepening, and he’d begun to slur. He reached out a bloody hand, fortunately not the one holding pressure on the bridge of his nose, to touch her hair. She was suddenly much more concerned about head trauma than before, although exsanguination was running a close second.

She wondered whether to be relieved or worried that her parents hadn’t seemed to notice Sansa didn’t have a corresponding glass of wine in front of her when they’d run into the pair celebrating. They’d clearly been distracted by the beautiful but surprisingly understated (for Petyr) ring adorning her left hand, and soon after, the table had caught fire anyway. 


	2. Chapter 1. Several months earlier...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Only in the way you want it_  
>  _Only on the day you want it_  
>  _Only with the understanding_  
>  _Every single day you want it_  
>  _You, you_  
>  -Vampire Weekend, Worship You

_Several months earlier..._

As soon as she ascertained he was alone, Sansa barged into Petyr’s office without knocking, letting the door bear the brunt of her pique. “Arya knows,” she announced portentously.

He’d been sat at his desk, monitors already up and running displaying a wider selection of depravity than she’d expect for the middle of the afternoon. He wasn’t paying them any attention, however, instead engrossed in his laptop, except to glance up every once in awhile to check that no more debauchery was taking place than had been paid for. At her entrance, he looked over to her, a subtle warmth overcoming his mien, but immediately returned his focus to the screen in front of him. Off-handedly, he answered, “Knows what?”

She crossed her arms, reigning in the impulse to tap her foot. "About us,” she stated the obvious, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

Petyr deliberately kept typing and clicking away at whatever was open in front of him, drawling casually, "What about us?" He was feigning inattention just to annoy her, she knew. She had the strong urge to smack him but he'd probably enjoy it too much, the kinky sod.

Consciously raining in her incredulity, Sansa stalked over to him, grinding her teeth together in reply, "She saw us in the car last night. I told you it was too risky."

"It doesn’t seem to have gone over too poorly,” he hummed. She could see him eyeing her in his peripheral vision even as he pretended to focus on the computer.

Sansa exhaled sharply in irritation. "She despises you. We argued. She thinks I'm nuts and wants to see you emasculated with kitchen appliances if not dead."

Dryly, he mused, "And yet, I sit here intact and unmurdered and you haven't been committed to psychiatric care against your will." Petyr finally looked up from his computer to smirk at her, pushing his chair back from his desk and continuing smugly, "On the whole, I'd say that went rather well."

"This doesn't concern you at all?" She tried to perch on the edge of the desk in front of him but he pulled her into his lap to straddle him instead, hands roaming down her bare legs and back up before settling around her hips.

He shrugged, gray-green eyes glinting at her as he grinned. "Unless you planned on sneaking around for the rest of our lives they’re bound to find out eventually. And your sister is by far the most reasonable of the bunch, for what it's worth."

She cocked an eyebrow at  him, bringing her hands to settle on his shoulders. "Did I mention she wants to kill you?"

He chuckled. "She hasn't actually tried yet, which puts her a step above your father."

She snorted, “And where would I fall on that rather dubious scale?”

“The very top, every time of course. Dying at your hands would be a privilege.” He smiled at her winningly and pulled her in close so that she had to lean back, bracing her arms around his neck.  

She shook her head, perturbed. “That's...really weird, Petyr.”

“So?” he queried, eyebrow arched.

She sighed, drawing her nails through the precisely trimmed hair at the nape of his neck, eliciting a rewarding shudder from him. “I just feel that one of us should still recognize and acknowledge what other people would see as abnormal behavior.”

He huffed, eyes darkening with a touch of vulnerability. “Since when have you been so concerned with what other people think?” He frowned, voice roughened as he asked, “Are you ashamed of our relationship?"

"No, of course not,” she denied with no small amount of affection, bringing a hand around to cup his cheek, the bristles of his beard scratchy against her palm. “I love you, you berk.”

"Words a man waits a lifetime pining to hear," Petyr lamented sardonically, smile playing at the corners of his lips. She thwacked him lightly on the chest with the same hand in response to his dramatics, but followed it with a conciliatory kiss which he reciprocated readily. She settled into him, enjoying the familiar heat of his mouth and taste of his tongue twined with hers. After a moment, they parted, and she rested her forehead against his. "Why does the prospect of them finding out worry you so much?" His voice traveled through her as a low rumble.

She looked down for a moment, playing with the obsessively neat line of his tie in thought before she answered. "It's silly I guess. I just wanted to wait until after graduation, when I can get a job and a flat and all that so they might finally see me as an adult capable of making my own decisions."

He snorted. "You really think your parents will cease to be overprotective nightmares just because you’ve acquired employment and a residence?”

He had a point, annoying as it was. She grumbled, discontent, and Petyr took the opportunity to lean in and start licking his way down the skin of her chest left exposed by the cut of her shirt.

A knock on the door made him lift his head up from between her breasts. Sansa shifted away, making a token effort to get out of the chair, but he only pressed her closer, bringing her snug against the erection she suspected he'd been nursing since she entered the room, based on prior experience. “Come in,” he called tersely.

The door opened, and Olyvar stepped through. He started, clearly not expecting to see Sansa perched on his boss’s lap, which was odd, as it was at least a weekly if not daily occurrence for his employees to be subjected to the sight of Petyr behaving inappropriately with her in some way. He stammered, “I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t realize--”

“Just spit it out, whatever it is,” Petyr grunted, his hand sliding up her leg to wander beneath the denim of the cut-offs she wore. Curiously, the ordinarily unflappable man’s cheeks reddened when Sansa smiled at him in greeting. For him to be scandalized at this venture was quite unexpected; in their last conversation alone, he’d given her prostate massage tips, described the experience of anal from the penetrant perspective, complained about the declining quality of dildos since their supplier started buying from Mereen, and had Sansa in stitches with the story of the time he’d accidentally attended a coprophiliac party. The only time he’d shown any hint of squeamishness was when she and Ros were discussing the merits of period sex, but even then he’d just pulled a few queasy faces. She had trouble imagining what she could have possibly done to cause such a reaction in him.

Olyvar cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Sir, Lord Frey would like to lodge his usual complaint--”

Petyr interrupted him before he could elucidate further. “Fine, give him whatever unreasonable thing he’s demanding this time. And have Merei and Genna attend him as well. Be sure to remind them how much they'll be paid to do very little.”

“Very good sir,” Olyvar nodded his head in deference before ducking back out, clearly eager to leave at the nearest opportunity.

“And lock it behind you!” Petyr barked just in time for the man to reach around the door he was tugging closed to engage the mechanism before it shut completely.

“Somehow _I’m_ always responsible for the functionality of the old bastard’s dick implant,” Petyr seethed under his breath. “I should add a consultation fee to his bill..”

Sansa suppressed a shudder of revulsion. The less time and thought allotted to that particular image the better. The more pressing issue was the peculiar behavior of Petyr’s underling, with whom she had previously thought herself to be on good terms. “Why is Olyvar blushing and refusing to make eye contact with me?”

Petyr gave her a slightly sheepish look. It was unconvincing. “He was cleaning my office and found a collection of your panties and made the unfortunate decision to toss them away. I might've...overreacted.”

Sansa blinked. “Wha-- _why_?”

“Well, they weren’t exactly usable,” he explained with a rather lascivious wetting of his lips.

She refused to reward him by betraying her visceral reaction to the insinuation. “No, I mean why did you have them--never mind I don't want to know.”

“I always buy you replacements,” he reasoned, conciliatory tone clashing with the amused glint in his eyes.

“That's hardly the point,” she shot back, shaking her head in consternation.  “How are you not on a sex offender registry somewhere?”

He had the temerity to look affronted. “I don’t go around snatching random women’s underthings.”

“Just mine?” she clarified with palpable sarcasm.

“Of course,” he affirmed, moving the hand not devoted to tracing along her upper thigh to the small of her back, smoothing over the skin beneath her shirt and sliding up in gentle circles.

She rolled her eyes. “I guess I should be flattered.” It was hardly new, this kink of his, but it tended to mean she didn't get attached to particular articles of clothing. She supposed she'd accepted a mere passing resemblance to ordinary when she'd chosen Petyr. Then again, perhaps it suited her far more than she'd prefer to admit, at times, judging by the unwholesome thrill the proof of his possessiveness and near-boundless desire for her provoked. She wasn't about to let him off that easy, however. “Perv,” she chided with a smirk and a gentle tug on his tie before unknotting it.

“Flatterer,” he returned in stride, skillfully unhooking her bra with one hand. She ran her hands over his chest to slide his suit jacket off but was waylaid by something crinkling in a shirt pocket.

“What’s this?” She pulled it out with nary a hint of resistance from him, curious. A quick glance identified it as a rather familiar bit of literature. She looked back up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Why do you have a brochure from my apartment building?” she inquired mildly. He’d put it there purposefully for her to notice, she knew, to ensure that they’d talk about it. Why he felt the need to introduce the topic in such a roundabout way rather than address it directly was one of the many quirks about the man she found equal parts exasperating and endearing.

“I was thinking of renting a place there,” he offered, deliberately casual as he cupped a newly freed breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers in what was surely a bid to entice her to remove her shirt entirely.

She decided to remain unmoved. For now, at least. “Why?” she queried, skepticism narrowing her eyes, sliding the glossy surface of the pamphlet--cheerfully doing its best to show off the rather bland set of buildings--between her fingers. They’d chosen a block of flats near to campus so as to be convenient for Jeyne to attend classes daily and still be a short commute for Sansa at her internship by Aegon’s Hill. It was marginally nearer to Petyr’s club than her series of dorms had been, but not close enough, evidently.

His gaze was lowered, focused on the peaked flesh he caressed as he answered roughly, “Because I don’t like being limited to seeing you only a few nights a week.” It shouldn’t have been a huge surprise. He'd been trying to move her into his apartment bit by bit almost since they'd first slept together. “Your flatmate has demonstrated a surprising amount of discretion thus far as well,” he added, finally looking up, “it’s a logical compromise.”

The admission of his need for her tugged at a spot deep in her chest, and his proposed solution, essentially uprooting himself to a part of the city he didn't particularly like, was odd but somehow comforting. She wouldn’t admit how much she too had missed him over the summer, having to return home to her parents’ house most nights; it would have a deleterious effect on his ego, for one thing, and that hardly needed encouragement.

“I suppose that would be more convenient,” she admitted, keeping her tone carefully neutral as she undid the buttons of his shirt one by one. He took that as permission to begin the process of dragging her own top up, fingers lightly skimming her sides as he did so. A thought popped into her head she'd been meaning to bring up before she got too sidetracked. "Speaking of Jeyne, she wants us to have lunch with her and Brad tomorrow.”

He halted his movements, expression darkening as he snarled, “That complete and utter tool? Which scintillating topic of conversation should I prepare myself for this time? The current doings of whatever local team engaged in sporting activity the night before? Perhaps I'll be treated to a detailed analysis of your tits yet again.” He gritted his teeth together in controlled anger.

“I’m sorry Petyr. I’m hoping this one won’t last too much longer,” she apologized, threading her fingers through his hair and ruffling it. That he hadn’t murdered the twat by now was a testament to his patience. She wouldn't grant the man a generous life expectancy after parting from her roommate. “Jeyne is still in that starry-eyed stage where she isn’t able to comprehend how terrible he is. She’ll lose interest soon enough.”

“One can only hope,” he grumbled, seemingly placated for the moment. Her lover’s outwardly convivial manner made it easy to forget oftimes that underneath the facile, friendly exterior lay a bit of a cantankerous, malcontent misanthrope. The list of people whose company Petyr genuinely enjoyed as opposed to merely tolerating for financial or political gain (or sadistic pleasure, depending on his mood) was alarmingly small. Sometimes it seemed to consist solely of her, though she suspected he was more fond of some of his employees than he would admit. It might take a serious amount of arm-twisting to get out of him, however. “He seems perpetually dumbfounded that I could be faithful to you whilst running my businesses,” Petyr groused. “Especially since he himself seems unable to refrain from fucking everything that moves.”

“Obsession to the point of madness helps,” she observed with a subtle smile.

Giving her a sour look, he complained, “I do deeply love and respect you as well, you know.”

“I know,” she replied airily, and giggled when he pinched her bum in retaliation, almost immediately soothing it with his fingers, slipping them under cloth to find her bare skin and rub in small circles. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch, too busy finishing up errands to do more than grab a snack. “What do you want for dinner?”

“You,” he growled, fingers wandering medially to seek out the tangible effects of his ministrations, his breath catching as he found the slick proof of her arousal.

She groaned, masking desire in exasperation. “I’m seriously asking what type of food you would want for the meal which traditionally takes place in the evening,” she enunciated slowly, gamely ignoring the building heat between her thighs.

“I’ve already told you,” he proclaimed, finally managing to tug her shirt over her head, bringing her undone bra with it.

“Every single time,” she muttered to the heavens half-heartedly, as if it would help.

“Why do you keep asking the question if you know what the answer will be?” he drawled sardonically, his grin obnoxious. His hand roamed over her bared skin, warming it in the crisp chill of the air-conditioned room.

“In the foolish optimism you’ll give me a straight answer at some point?” she fired back with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

Petyr ignored it, instead focused on her remaining clothing, groaning, “These are the plain cotton ones, aren't they?” He brought his hand around between her legs to cup her mons for better access, still rubbing overtop the thin layer, movements skillful even when constrained by the fabric of her cut-offs.

“What?” Her voice shook as he drew his fingers up and down her sex over the barrier. He frequently bought her absurdly scanty, lacy lingerie, which she’d avoided wearing over the summer for practical reasons--comfort and the fact that her mother often decided to do her laundry whether it was wanted or not--but he was apparently brought to his knees by the pair she’d grabbed while dressing in a hurry this morning. Sometimes he baffled her.

“White?” His eyes flashed up at her, practically foaming at the mouth.

“I don’t remember?” She hadn’t really thought about it. He paid far more attention than she did about her intimate wear, for the most part.

He grasped her thighs, pulling her flush against his hardened cock--the heat of which she could feel even through the layers that separated them--as he stood, then maneuvered her onto the desk. She reached around her back to slide his laptop closed and push it to the side, as it was digging into her spine. For all his current recklessness, she knew he’d be quite cross if it suffered the tragic fate of some of his earlier equipment.

“I want them dripping wet with your cum,” he growled into her ear, stripping off her shorts but leaving her underwear in place. The lacquered wood of his desk was cold against her back but soon forgotten as he augmented the work of his hands with his mouth, tongue pressing through the cotton fabric to find her clit, joined intermittently by the light brush of his teeth. The texture of the material added a new dimension to the act, heightened by the pure debauchery of it. He closed his eyes as he sucked at her, groaning.  She threw her head back, unable to control her own moan, steadying herself with a hand grasping his hair. In response, he tugged the slip of cloth aside roughly, a finger teasing her entrance in maddening circles. The fabric objected to the ill-treatment with a tearing sound. She had a feeling she  wouldn’t be getting this particular pair back anytime soon--if at all--and resigned herself to the loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many apologies for how long it took me to update this. I beg your patience, and hope you find it worth the wait. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 2: A Rude Awakening...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pounding on the door woke Sansa abruptly from what had been a nice, deep sleep. Petyr groaned beside her. “Who the fuck is that?"
> 
> “I've no idea,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes to try to get them to open and stay that way rather than slipping closed without her leave. Reluctantly, she started to get out of bed to answer it, but found her attempt impeded by Petyr’s tight grip on her hips. She sighed. “Come on, I've got to go get it.” 
> 
> He only grumbled, the bristles of his beard tickling her shoulder as he nuzzled it. “They can fuck right off, it’s eight in the morning on a Saturday.”

* * *

A pounding on the door woke Sansa abruptly from what had been a nice, deep sleep. Petyr groaned beside her. “Who the fuck is that?"

“I've no idea,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes to try to get them to open and stay that way rather than slipping closed without her leave. Reluctantly, she started to get out of bed to answer it, but found her attempt impeded by Petyr’s tight grip on her hips. She sighed. “Come on, I've got to go get it.”

He only grumbled, the bristles of his beard tickling her shoulder as he nuzzled it. “They can fuck right off, it’s eight in the morning on a Saturday.” The knocking intensified in volume and tempo, reaching a level of both that her neighbors might start objecting to.

“Will you let me up to go tell them that?” she retorted over her shoulder, sending a gentle elbow backward to induce him to release her. Not unexpectedly, it didn’t work.

“No,” he huffed petulantly. He snuggled closer to her, pressing the beginnings of an erection against her backside. It would've been quite pleasant under other circumstances, but at the moment it only hindered her efforts. The knocking suddenly ceased, only to be replaced by the sounds of a key disengaging the lock. Sansa bolted upright in alarm. Petyr ran a hand down her back soothingly. “Relax, it's probably your flat mate.”

“Why would Jeyne be knocking on her own door, Petyr?” she hissed, scrambling with mixed success to extricate herself from the tangle of blankets and handsy man. She snatched a shirt from the floor, quickly determining it wasn’t hers, but she could hardly afford to be picky at the moment.

“Courtesy?” he drawled in undisguised amusement, propping up on his elbows as he watched her tug it haphazardly over her head.

“She didn't know you were going to be over,” she snapped back, managing to poke her head out of the collar but struggling with the combative shirtsleeves. The finicky nature of the locks on their door would give her a few extra seconds, but she felt herself growing anxious.

“Well, who else has a key?” Petyr raised an eyebrow, leering at her still-exposed breasts but otherwise not making any move to assist in the least. _Bastard._

Before she could answer, the door opened with a creak, and the identity of the intruder was revealed in typically loud fashion. “Sansa, don't make me drag your lazy arse out of bed!” Arya’s dulcet tones reached them along with what sounded like the door slamming behind her.

“Shit,” Sansa cursed, still trapped with the shirt twisted halfway down her torso. She could hear that her sister was lumbering toward them--how such a small person produced that much sound was a perpetual mystery--and would reach door to the bedroom any second. Sansa hadn't locked it, not thinking it necessary since Jeyne wouldn't be back until tomorrow, a decision she began to deeply regret. Petyr very unhelpfully started chuckling next to her. In desperation she slapped her pillow on top of him, knowing full well the man-shaped mound of sheets would make the action futile, but she had no other recourse.

Her bedmate immediately shrugged it off. “Did you just try to hide me under a pillow?” He glared at her, affronted. The effect was rather undercut by the fact that half his hair seemed to be in open revolt against the other. It was adorable but didn't lend any gravity to his normally intimidating glower.

“Shhh!” she admonished, trying fruitlessly to pull the shirt over her stomach. Arya announced her presence on the other side of the door with more heavy blows to it.

“Your sister already knows about us, what's the big deal?” he groused, resisting the attempts of her hand on his chest to push him further into the pile of blankets.

“That doesn't mean I want her walking in on us in bed!” she whispered harshly, attention flitting rapidly back and forth between Petyr and the door rattling on its hinges. She might be able to shove him into the bathroom or closet if she could only get the contrary ass to move--

“Sansa, I'm coming in there and you better not be naked!” Arya called from the hall.

 _No time._ Sansa tugged the covers up to at least conceal the fact that both of them were indeed mostly devoid of clothing at present. “Arya wait--”

But she was too late, as the door swung open and Arya stepped inside. The three of them froze, looking at one another for a moment, the horror in Arya’s expression a perfect reflection of her own while Petyr’s was set in his habitual resting smug face, then her sister slapped her hands over her face and gagged theatrically. “Oh gods, my eyes! My poor, innocent eyes!”  

“Good morning to you as well, Miss Stark,” Petyr sniped from behind her.

Arya whined. “Ugh! What did I do to deserve the sight of your wrinkled gray body?”

“Perhaps if you didn't barge in on people, you might not see things you don't like,” Sansa snapped, pulling the blankets around herself and Petyr higher. “Out! Now!”

Her sister pivoted dramatically, one arm still flung over her eyes as she slammed the door behind her. Sansa flopped back on the bed with an aggravated sigh.

Petyr shifted next to her. “I'm forty, not the fucking cryptkeeper,” he fumed. Sansa turned to give him an incredulous look. _Fantastic._ Now she would have Petyr’s fragile male pride to coddle as well.

“She's just saying that to get a rise out of you,” she soothed. “If she'd actually been looking, she would've made a comment about your scar or the tattoos. Besides, I happen to like your wrinkled gray body,” she affirmed cheekily. Oh gods, he was pouting at her now. She resisted the instinct to roll her eyes and instead revved up her attempts at assuagement, fingers playing over the contrasting textures of the scattered hair on his chest and said healed wound centrally featured in it, smiling gently. “ _I_ find you sexy as hell. Now whose opinion matters more?”

Petyr folded his arms mulishly, his expression darkening to an outright sulk, which made her contain another sigh. Sometimes she forgot the insecurity and vulnerability hidden beneath the bravado and perpetual arrogance he wore like armor, and it resurfaced in the oddest of ways. Ordinarily the age gap between them didn’t bother him in the least, so she wasn’t certain whether he was digging for compliments at the moment or genuinely in need of reassurance. Either way, she was willing to play along. She hadn’t been lying; she quite liked the way he looked, and though time had increased the gray at his temples and deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth, she found the former striking and was fond of the latter for how it let her read the subtle emotions that often crossed his sharp features. He wasn’t overly hairy either, and there was a graceful power to his slim form which she found irresistible. He would probably continue to be attractive to an obnoxious degree as he aged, the lucky prick, she reflected with little malice.

She flattened her hands against his pecs, sweeping up the lean but nicely defined muscle then down over the inked curve of his shoulders to map out the patterns wrapping around his forearms in a bid to get him to uncross them. He eyed her steadily but didn’t yield, his mouth set firmly in a scowl, and so she changed tactics, one hand dropping to his belly, rubbing in soft circles as she drew it downward. He didn’t have a six pack--which hardly mattered, she’d gotten over desiring that a long time ago thanks to Joffrey, who spent what little time he had sober pumping up his muscles even as the steroids he injected shrank his testicles--but his abdomen was flat and nicely firm beneath her fingertips. She let her fingernails drag through the thin trail leading to his groin, hiding a smirk at her discovery; Petyr appreciated her mollifying efforts on some level, it seemed, judging by the tented fabric she encountered. She inched the blankets down and felt him tense in anticipation of her touch, but instead of wrapping around thick, hard cock or full, aching balls, her hand strayed to his upper thigh, then even further away down his leg. She grinned slyly, reveling in the mounting frustration of the man next to her until he snapped, finally uncrossing his arms with a growl to roll over her, pushing her back into the pillows in mock fury. She couldn’t hold in her laughter when he retaliated by tickling her sides, and dragged his mouth to hers to distract him from the assault before she ran out of breath. Lost in the taste and feel of him, she forgot that they had company until Arya again bellowed through the door. “If you two start shagging, I'm gonna get the fire extinguisher!”

Startled, they broke apart. Petyr propped himself up on his elbows, hanging his head and groaning, “Why is she here?”

Sansa sighed, one hand flattened over his upper back as the other dug into the tight muscle of his nape that tended to give him headaches. “I forgot we were supposed to be going to the tattoo convention,” she answered apologetically.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise and not a little interest. “Tattoo convention?”

“Arya wants to have a design ready for when she turns eighteen,” she explained.

He frowned, shifting his weight to one arm to free the other in order to fondle her breast beneath the shirt she had failed to put on properly. “I thought you were spending the day with me,” he complained in a tone that would have counted as a whine had it come from anyone else.

She brought her hands up to cradle his jaw in apology. “I'm sorry, Petyr, I promised her.”

He assessed her for a long moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “Well, it's not what I would've chosen, but we can make do,” he declared.

It was her turn to be surprised. “You really want to go to this?” Though Petyr covered himself in ink, it was more a private expression of himself than the loud, public display the convention would surely entail.

He shook his head ruefully. “Not particularly, but I want to be with you, so I'm willing to endure it.”

She bit her lip, a habit he never failed to notice, as evidenced by the twitch of his erection against her thigh. She ignored it for the time being. “I'm not sure that's a good idea,” she cautioned.

He shrugged casually, gaze sweeping down her body in obvious enjoyment at the sight of her clad (poorly) in his shirt. “You wanted me to make an effort to get along with your family, didn’t you? This is a good opportunity to do it,” he claimed.

Sansa wasn’t sure she’d actually requested such, unless he was referring to her entreaty not to enrage her father at every turn, if only for Petyr’s own well-being. Though what his ulterior motive for spending the day in the company of her sister and her boyfriend could be remained a mystery for the moment. “It might've been better if we didn't spring it on so her suddenly.”

“Then she would've had the chance to say no,” he reasoned through a lopsided smirk before dropping his mouth to her throat.  

“Why do I feel like that’s your general approach to everything?” she accused, her skeptical look lost on him as his attention was focused on marking her neck and retaking his place between her legs with purpose.

Before she could decide whether to halt his advances, Arya thumped on the door again in warning. “Seriously, you have thirty seconds before I set off the fire alarm!”

“We're getting up, gods damn you,” Sansa barked, pushing her very disgruntled partner off to the side and hoisting herself up. Petyr watched her roll out of bed before reluctantly rising with a pained grunt as well. After some struggle, she tugged off Petyr’s shirt and tossed it to the floor, heading into the ensuite bathroom. He started to follow her but she stopped him at the doorway with a hand on his chest.

“No,” she said firmly, pushing him out of the room. “Go back to your flat to change. We’ll meet down here when you’re done.” If she let Petyr shower with her, they wouldn't be leaving before noon. He gave her a rather martyrous look but acquiesced, dressing hastily, in the process snagging the discarded shirt she had failed to wrangle into submission and pulling it on easily, the ass. He flashed her another hangdog look which she resisted before slipping out. She didn’t hear any bloodcurdling screams from the living room, so she assumed Arya had let him pass un-neutered.

Sansa ran through the routine of her ablutions quickly, then picked out a casual ensemble suitable for what was likely to be a continuance of the already strange day. When she was dressed, she went to find her sister. Arya had been productive; her sister was flopped sideways on the recliner, munching on a slice of leftover pizza she must've foraged from the fridge and flipping through channels with a practiced expression of boredom.

Sansa cleared her throat to announce her presence. “Petyr's coming with us. I hope that's ok.”

Arya’s finger paused midair over the button, turning to her with a wary expression. “Was that a question or are you just telling me?”

“Telling you?” Sansa winced apologetically. Her sister took another big bite of pizza and chewed it loudly, utterly unmoved. “Please?” Sansa wheedled. “It would mean a lot to me.”

Arya swallowed slowly, glaring at her. “This was supposed to be a sister thing,” she complained.

“Gendry was already going,” Sansa reasoned.

Arya stuffed the entire remainder of the slice in her mouth, mumbling around it, “He barely counts.”

Sansa’s eyebrow arched. “I'm gonna tell him you said that,” she returned drily.

Arya seemed unworried by the prospect. “Ugh. I never would've asked you to go if I knew you were going to bring your stalker!” she griped, kicking the side of the chair.

Sansa crossed her arms in annoyance, eyeing the marks Arya was making in her furniture, snapping, “He's my boyfriend, not my stalker.” Technically he was both, but she wasn't about to concede that bit of ammunition to her.

It made little difference. Arya snorted, “You can hear yourself talk right now, can't you?”

Sansa ignored it, choosing instead to gather her things to leave, slipping on a pair of trainers in anticipation of being on her feet most of the day.

“Where'd your _boyfriend_ go?” Arya needled, hopping nimbly out of the chair, but not before carelessly wiping her hands on it.

“To get a change of clothes, I think,” Sansa answered absently, making a mental note to get cleaning supplies when they were out to handle the grease stains.

“From where, his car?” her sister asked, a bit puzzled.

“No, he has a flat one floor up,” she answered without thinking, checking her purse for cash. Petyr would pay for everything regardless, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t at least try to split the costs. Though it was a perpetual battle between them that Sansa was destined to lose, the ensuing argument added a deliciously frictive element to their inevitable reconciliation later. Besides, she knew for Petyr it wasn’t a slight against her capabilities or commentary on her independence, but rather an overwhelming need to provide for her. There were worse faults.

“He _moved in_ to your apartment building?” Arya yelped, eyes widening in alarm.

Sansa berated herself silently for the slip, wanting not to have to discuss that particular development with her sister on top of the embarrassment which had already occurred. After a pause, she admitted, “Yes.”

Arya crossed her arms and tapped her foot meaningfully, drawling, “Allow me to revisit my stalker comment from earlier...”

“It was more convenient this way,” Sansa returned breezily.

Arya’s skepticism was palpable. “If that's what you need to tell yourself to rationalise it, fine, but you're rewarding creepy behavior. It's a terrible precedent to set.”

Sansa bristled, firing back sardonically, “I'm sorry, I wasn't aware my relationships were going to be the standard by which all others were judged. Someone should have told me; I'd have made more socially acceptable choices.”

Her sister clicked her teeth obnoxiously. “For the record, I've been trying to tell you that for years now.”

The spat was interrupted by the sound of a key yet again engaging the lock, thankfully heralding Petyr’s return. He stepped inside, greeting Sansa with a smile that faded a bit as he took in the standoff between herself and Arya.

“Shall we?” he inquired mildly, holding the door open as a stab at peacemaking. Strangely, he was dressed in a completely atypical outfit of a faded black t-shirt advertising some sort of classic rock band and ragged jeans. He'd even worn a beat up pair of sneakers, items she hadn’t been entirely certain he even owned. It was bizarrely hot.

Arya stared at the three-quarter sleeve tattoos in fascination, clearly surprised by them. She soon recovered, however, sneering, “You look like someone's dad trying way too hard.”

Petyr smirked, eyeing Sansa with a salacious expression, and she could tell exactly what section of the gutter his mind had gone to. “Actually--”

“Stop talking,” Sansa interjected, fighting a blush mightily, and preemptively grabbed him by the hand to tug him through the doorway. Though she may have embraced some of the kinkier aspects of their relationship--in this case Petyr’s predilection for roleplay--she wasn’t about to share that with her sister. “Come on, let's get going,” she shot over her shoulder, ignoring her lover’s perverse enjoyment of being told off. Arya gave them both a suspicious look, but followed without remarking on it.

The uncomfortable silence carried through the process of locking the door and short journey to the parking lot where Gendry waited in a car that appeared to be held together mostly by rust. Arya threw herself into the passenger side next him while Sansa shuffled herself and Petyr into the cramped back seat. Gendry looked up in the rear view mirror and his eyes widened in surprise before narrowing to a fierce glare.

“What the fuck is _he_ doing here?” the ordinarily level-headed man spat, eyeing Petyr with undisguised hatred.

“Good morning, Mr. Waters. How have you been?” Petyr returned evenly with a smile as if half the occupants of the car weren’t making it perfectly clear they’d rather commit ritual suicide than spend another moment in his presence. He was used to it, after all.

Gendry turned to Arya, likely to demand an explanation, but she threw her hands up in exasperation before he could utter another word. “Don’t look at me, Sansa insisted on dragging the wanker along with us,” she spat with derision.  

Sansa sighed inwardly; it was like she’d extended an invitation to the plague. Actually, that might’ve gone down better, or at least had a lower expected mortality rate. She could only be grateful Petyr hadn't immediately  brought up the sore subject of the bastard boy’s mother. “It’s good to see you again, Gendry,” she said with a polite smile, managing to drag the man’s attention to her and gamely utilizing courtesy as a shield to parry the icy daggers of disdain being hurled their way. “I heard they promoted you to manager at the shop. Congratulations!” she added, desperately hoping to avoid bloodshed.

Gendry stared at Petyr with open loathing in the rear view mirror for a few moments, which bothered the latter not at all, then the former glanced at Sansa again. She gave him an apologetic shrug, which he seemed to accept begrudgingly. “Fucking arsewhipe” he muttered, flashing another glare at Petyr before starting the engine, the tiny car roaring to life with a bone-shaking growl. The vehicle theoretically had a muffler somewhere in vague proximity to the rest of the exhaust, but it wasn’t evident in from where Sansa was sitting.

They set off across town to the Dragonpit where the convention was being held at a speed well above what was strictly legal, Gendry evidently taking his frustrations out on the road in front of him, weaving in and out of traffic aggressively. The hatchback’s rear bench was mostly a formality, which meant she and Petyr practically sat on top of one another, and were shoved together periodically each time they rounded a particularly hairpin turn. Of course, Petyr didn't seem to mind in the least, his arm wrapped securely around her as she leaned her head on his shoulder. The noise of the engine drowned out any potential conversation, though Arya and Gendry were having some sort of inaudible exchange in the front seat that involved a great number and variety of hand signals. Sansa settled against Petyr as comfortably as the frequent accelerations and decelerations allowed, and thusly they passed most of the journey in companionable non-conversation, at least until her sister’s shrill threat cut through the clamor; “Oy! Don't make me do a hand check!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I'm having trouble finding the time to write, but I really appreciate all the support, and hope to be able to update fairly regularly. Apologies for making y'all wait. Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 3: A double date of sorts...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa felt simultaneously overdressed from a skin-revealing standpoint and underdressed in the face of the gothic pageantry on display around them, not the least of which being several herds’ worth of leather and piercings in places Sansa had never dreamed of putting them. As extensive as Petyr’s tattoos were, they were dwarfed by the ink adorning a large portion of the crowd--some of whose subjects she could only guess at, and covering a greater surface area than she had considered possible to etch on the human body. One design in particular caught her eye and made her do a doubletake. _It couldn’t possibly be what it looks like..._
> 
> “Petyr…” She nudged him gently as they shuffled forward. 
> 
> “Yes, my love?” he replied, voice husky in her ear, shifting his grip on her so that he could play with the loose ends of her hair, curling it around his fingers as he surveyed the crowd casually. 
> 
> Sansa tried to keep her expression and tone as neutral as his. “The woman three rows to our left, near the front…” 
> 
> His eyes swept over the indicated area, a slight smirk the only betrayal that he’d spied what she was inquiring about. “You mean the one with the vulva tattooed on the back of her neck?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Welcome to my life, tattoo_  
>  _I'm a man now, thanks to you_  
>  _I expect I'll regret you but the skin graft man won't get you_  
>  _You'll be there when I die_  
>  ~The Who, _Tattoo_
> 
> It seems like I will be ever-apologizing for the time in between updates. I really appreciate all the support I've gotten for this fic though--it definitely helps me get over the writer's block. Enjoy!

After fighting their way through more traffic than Sansa would’ve expected so early in the morning on the weekend, they finally arrived at the rebuilt facility. The Dragonpit was a lasting monument to Targaryen ego, purportedly once the den of its namesake monsters many generations ago. Sansa wasn’t sure how much she believed, but the collection of skulls on display within inspired endless conspiracy theories and folktales. The structure itself was an odd combination of decrepit and modern, the remaining sections of crumbling stone encased in glass and metal, layering new flesh over old bones to create an oddly striking feature that dominated the surrounding landscape. The acoustics made for an interesting concert experience, to say the least.

Parking was another ordeal courageously undertaken by Gendry, armed with a great deal of aggressive gesticulation and colorful language directed toward their rival drivers. He managed to secure a spot sandwiched between a huddle of motorcycles and a woefully hypermasculine truck. After they extricated themselves from the undersized vehicle, Petyr slung an arm around Sansa that Arya seemed to have a visceral reaction to. The latter defiantly grabbed Gendry’s hand in gesture that appeared equal parts public display of affection and attempt to extract his humerus from its socket, and they joined the motley throng entering the Dragonpit.

The queues in the large entranceway were long but seemed to be moving at a brisk pace. When they took their place at the back, Arya and Gendry stood as far behind her and Petyr as they could without inviting line cutters, still arguing quietly--likely over the unwanted presence of the latter. Sansa resolved to ignore them for the moment. The time waiting afforded her the opportunity to take in the rather singular sights around them. Sansa felt simultaneously overdressed from a skin-revealing standpoint and underdressed in the face of the gothic pageantry on display around them, not the least of which being several herds’ worth of leather and piercings in places Sansa had never dreamed of putting them. Petyr, oddly enough, fit in quite well, the tattoos wrapping around his upper limbs granting him a badge of authenticity the rest of their little party lacked, though Gendry sported at least one brand of his own in a less obtrusive location--a bull over his heart, if she remembered correctly. As extensive as Petyr’s were, they were dwarfed by the ink adorning a large portion of the crowd--some of whose subjects she could only guess at, and covering a greater surface area than she had considered possible to etch on the human body. One design in particular caught her eye and made her do a doubletake. _It couldn’t possibly be what it looks like..._

“Petyr…” She nudged him gently as they shuffled forward to turn his attention toward the unlikely spectacle.

“Yes, my love?” he replied, voice husky in her ear, shifting his grip on her so that he could play with the loose ends of her hair, curling it around his fingers as he surveyed the crowd casually.

Sansa tried to keep her expression and tone as neutral as his. “The woman three rows to our left, near the front…”

His eyes swept over the indicated area, a slight smirk the only betrayal that he’d spied what she was inquiring about. “You mean the one with the vulva tattooed on the back of her neck?”

So she wasn’t mistaken after all. “Is there any particular reason for someone to get that?” she wondered, somewhat bewildered.

His eyes glinted in amusement. “Aside from provoking the very conversation we're having right now? None that I can think of.” Sansa shook her head, trying to imagine the circumstances which could have prompted such a decision. “You know, it's actually quite tasteful,” he mused, the corner of his mouth quirked in devilish mirth. “The use of the stud as a clit piercing lends it a certain flair…”

“Ugh, no,” she groaned, trying not to redden, and nudged him again less gently, which he only answered with a quiet chuckle.

“Your pussy is much prettier though,” he added mischievously, giving her a lascivious once-over, his hand dropping to caress the curve of her hip pointedly as he purred into her ear, “a veritable masterpiece.”

She blushed furiously at the inappropriate compliment. He was never shy about lauding even that particular part of her body, but he generally reserved it for more private settings. She certainly did not want to have this conversation with her sister almost in earshot. The best counter was to deflect, she knew, and decided to exploit an easy weakness of his. “Perhaps I should get one of those tattoos then,” she mused, “to show it off to everyone--”

“Absolutely not,” he growled playfully, tugging her around to be held flush against him, his hands gripping her waist in unreserved possession. “ _Mine._ Your lovely little cunny is mine to admire, no one else.”

“You’re no fun,” she complained, giving him a mock pout, palms flat against his chest, fingers sweeping over the skin bared by the worn-out neckline of his t-shirt. She noticed the employee at the now-available ticket booth giving her and Petyr an impatient look, likely keeping an eye on the line stretching almost to the entrance behind them. She started forward, slipping from Petyr’s embrace, but immediately found her progress halted by a tug on her arm. She whirled around in annoyance, which did not lessen when faced by her accoster. Petyr continued on to the booth without her.

“Sansa!” Arya hissed, an exaggeratedly disgusted expression on her face. Gendry stood behind her, looking a bit apprehensive.

She sighed, “What now?”

“Do you have to let him be all over you like that? It's gross. _He's_ gross,” Arya spat as if the words were rancid lemons.

Sansa bristled. While Petyr did tend to be...demonstrative, it was nothing more than most couples enjoyed in public. It wasn’t like he was feeling her up or anything. At least at the moment. Furthermore, the opportunity to be together  in the (however reluctant) presence of people they actually knew had been a refreshing novelty until that moment. “You don't see me judging anything you and Gendry do,” she shot back.

“My boyfriend isn't a pedophile,” Arya sneered. From over her shoulder, Gendry’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but quickly thought better of it.

Sansa glared at her sister, gritting her teeth in pique. “Neither is mine,” she declared. “You do know I've been over eighteen for a while now, don't you?”

“Oh please, we both know that wasn’t gonna stop him,” Arya quipped, arms crossed, not backing down in the least. Now that hit a little close to home. The only thing that had ever mattered to Petyr was her willingness, legality and social convention bedamned. She’d accepted that aspect of his nature, however, and deeply resented the judgement being leveled at them. She gave her sister a dirty look as Petyr returned from the ticket kiosk holding their passes.

He had paid for all of them automatically, to the disdain of Arya and Gendry. If he thought that was going to smooth things over, however, he was in for a rude surprise—the pair plucked their tickets from his palm without so much as a thank you. In retaliation, Sansa retook her place tucked snugly into her lover’s side with no small amount of rancor directed at her younger sibling, even going so far as to slip her hand in the back pocket of his jeans to give his arse a squeeze. Arya’s revulsion was palpable as she stormed ahead, followed by an apologetic Gendry. Petyr raised an eyebrow at the antics but hardly offered a complaint.

The hall itself was a cacophony of sound and whirlwind kaleidoscope of color and overstimulation. Sansa snagged a map so as to better plan the exploits of the day, but Arya eschewed it in favor of randomly wandering toward whatever caught her eye at any given moment. Petyr and Sansa--and a long-suffering Gendry--merely followed with a collective shrug. Arya skipped along the booths, her attention drawn to a dizzying array of options without any sort of pattern or consistency, seemingly at random--guns, skulls, swords, cartoon characters, eerie depictions of the stranger, etc. Sansa held in any disapproval or alarm, not wanting to make the especially terrible options her sister was considering more enticing. As they reached the end of a row, her sister still buzzing with excitement, they noticed a crowd gathered in one corner of the cavernous venue and ventured over. At first they couldn’t see over the throng, but then--

“Oh, gross!” Arya exclaimed loudly. Sansa could only agree; above them rose a man being hoisted up in the air by hooks in his back, skin stretching in a thoroughly unpleasant manner.

“I’m told once the threshold for pain is reached, it can be quite pleasurable,” Petyr offered casually. It did not appear so from the unhappy expression on the man’s face, visible even from several yards away.

“What, are _you_ gonna do it?” Arya goaded, jeering.

He turn to Sansa, inquiring in a relaxed drawl, “Is that something you'd be into?”

The man was now waving to be lowered down, clearly not enjoying the exercise in the least. She pursed her lips in disgust. “Not particularly.”

Arya snorted, assessing Petyr with disdain. “You really are whipped as fuck.”

Petyr just smirked at her. “Again, I think you're intending for that to be insulting in some way, but it's just not coming through,” he retorted smoothly.

Her sister rolled her eyes, the epitome of drama. “Tell me you don't already have ‘Sansa’s bitch’ tattooed on your ass.”

 _Oh no_. Petyr's eyes lit up at the challenge, and before she could intervene, he'd turned and slipped off his t-shirt enough to reveal the wolf hunched over his upper back. Sansa had to resist the urge to cover her face with her hands in mortification.

“Holy shit. That's actually kinda badass.” Her sister looked unexpectedly impressed. “When did you get that?” she asked as he turned back around and pulled the shirt back over his head.

“After Sansa tried to slit my throat,” Petyr answered offhandedly, as if it had been an inconvenient rough patch in their relationship instead of a legitimate murder attempt, tilting his head to expose the scar on his neck. It had healed more messily than she would've expected. Sansa fought to keep her expression as relaxed as his, watching her sister react to the news as well as could be expected.

Arya’s eyebrows shot up, clearly flabbergasted. “What?”

He shrugged, giving Sansa a fond smile that contrasted sharply with his words. “She thought I'd betrayed her. It was a reasonable response.”

Arya looked back and forth between them in horror. “The two of you are even more fucked up than I thought,” she declared.  

Petyr grinned, nudging her with his shoulder. “I keep telling her she should sign her handiwork, but she always refuses.”

She was never entirely sure he was kidding. Cocking an eyebrow, she returned flatly, “No, you're not getting a neck tattoo on my account.”

Arya was nonplussed. “Freaks,” she muttered, shaking her head at them.

Mercifully, Gendry stepped in to redirect the awkward conversation, putting a calming hand on Arya’s shoulder. “Babe, that guy who hammers nails into his skull is on.” He pointed toward the raised platform toward the rear of the room where large screens displayed a man with a puzzle-piece map tattooed over every visible surface—including his eyelids, as he was currently demonstrating by piercing them with fishhooks.

Sansa shuddered, but reluctantly followed Arya to take in the new spectacle. Petyr seemed less than impressed with the entertainment as well, though she suspected he might consider it an amateurish effort at provocation considering what she knew of his own carefully curated torture methods. On the way they passed by a convenience stand displaying a wide array of options high in carbohydrates and/or fat in loud colors. Sansa’s stomach reminded her they hadn’t actually gotten breakfast. Petyr noticed her eyeing the decidedly unhealthy goods on offer. “Is there something you’d like, sweetling?”

She weighed the relative merits of the available foodstuffs. “Hmm...a pretzel, I suppose,” she decided, reasoning that it was probably less harmful than the deep fried chocolate bars or mystery meat.

He nodded, then turned to Arya and Gendry, asking politely, “Do either of you want anything?”

Arya scrutinized him carefully, as if the offer was some sort of trap. Under most circumstances she’d be right, but Sansa had the feeling he was genuinely attempting to reach some sort of accord with her sister, bless him. “The biggest soda they have. And popcorn. And two hot dogs. And Skittles. And fried Oreos.”

Petyr raised his eyebrows at the request but acquiesced without complaint. “As you wish.” He turned to Gendry, who waived him off with less ill-humor than before. He pressed a quick kiss to her lips which she deepened pointedly when Arya started to make gagging noises behind her, flashing her sister the finger as she slipped her tongue into his mouth, to his vocal delight. A short but enjoyable while later, they separated. Petyr looked rather amused by her aggressive displays of affection but appeared quite happy to be the recipient of them. When he strode off to the concession stand she rounded on Arya, who was still pretending to be violently ill. She shook her head in consternation at her sibling’s immaturity and unreasonable demands. “Really? Why didn’t you just ask for the entire menu while you’re at it?” she snarked.

“You brought the creepy walking cash machine,” she rejoined. “The least you can do is let me have something in exchange for the torture.”

Sansa released a heavy sigh. “Petyr’s actually making a real effort at getting along with you, and all you’ve done is throw it back in his face. I know it’s asking a lot, but could you at least pretend that you don’t loathe him with every fiber of your being, at least for the next few hours?”

“He’s not been that bad, actually,” Gendry ventured meekly.

Arya turned on him, scandalized, and walloped him in the shoulder. “He’s the fucking worst and you know it!” Sansa grimaced in sympathy as Gendry grumbled, rubbing the afflicted area gingerly. Her sister could throw a mean punch for her size, she knew from unfortunate experience. Arya’s sharp gaze met Sansa’s again. “What exactly did he do to make you wanna kill him? Not that you’d really _need_ anything other than looking at his stupidass smug face.”

“It was nothing,” she dismissed. She pointed at the screen behind them in an attempt to shift attention back to the performance on the stage. “We’re missing the show.” The tattooed man was now attempting to cut the apple he held in his mouth in twain with a chainsaw, blindfolded. She couldn’t decide if he was motivated by bravery or madness.

“You took a knife to his throat. I wouldn’t call that nothing,” Arya prodded, not taking the bait.

Sansa swallowed, pushing down the emotions that still clung to the horrible memory despite the time that had passed. “I thought he’d sold me out to the Lannisters. It was a misunderstanding.”

Her sister’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You said this was only going on for a few months,” she accused, crossing her arms.

 _Shit._ “No, you assumed it, and I didn't correct you,” she returned evenly.

Arya’s features twisted in anger and concern. “When exactly did that bastard start touching you?” she demanded, uncrossing her arms to clench her fists at her sides. “Wait, has it been since we first moved here--”

Sansa was quick to placate her. “No, nothing like that! It started first semester freshman year,” she explained, trying to head off her sister’s fury before it frothed over in spectacular fashion, much like a tiny but deadly volcano.

Growing understanding replaced the concern, but Arya’s anger deepened to hurt. “That was him every time you were on the phone, wasn't it? I should've made the connection when you told me what Joffrey was doing. I can't believe you right now.”

Sansa reached for her sister, to no avail. “Arya--”

The irate teen stormed off, forsaking even the sideshow act she’d wanted to see. _This was going so well._ She could only hope her sister’s mood would be improved by the food, otherwise Petyr might end up wearing it. Gendry’s pat on her shoulder was awkward but well meant. “Give her a chance to cool off, it'll be ok,” he mumbled before shuffling off after Arya.

Sansa exhaled heavily, but gave him a smile for the effort. “Thanks, Gendry.”

Finding little pleasure in watching the man now inserting a drill into his nostril, Sansa turned from the spectacle and wandered down another one of the aisles, intent on finding something else to occupy her attention while waiting for Petyr to return. Her eye was drawn to a display of simple, clean designs--in mostly black-and-white--that nonetheless evoked powerful impressions of their subjects, the precision of the artwork somehow adding rather than detracting from the animated nature of it. She noticed a pattern that looked familiar; it was almost Petyr’s mockingbird, similar enough to mistake it at first glance. She’d never considered getting a tattoo before, but now the idea of marking herself with his symbol as he had done for her, forming a permanent physical bond between them, had a certain appeal. She knew he would be quite appreciative of it at the very least.

“Find something you like?” a gruff but not unfriendly voice interrupted her perusal, and she turned to the speaker; standing behind the counter was a woman with a nose-to-ear chain, half her head shaved, the other half dyed bright pink, and a wry grin to match her congenial tone, hints of Wildling in her accent.

Sansa pointed at the tattoo that had caught her attention. “Could you do something like this, with a few changes?”

The woman nodded. “Sure, we do all kinds of custom stuff. What did you have in mind?”

Sansa tried to remember if she had a picture of his tie pin somewhere. Instead, she loaded the website for his club on her phone. The logo wasn’t as detailed as she wanted, but it would suffice as an example. She held out the picture of the bird toward the artist. “I can get you a better picture later.”

The woman appraised it briefly. “Shouldn’t be a problem.” She took a card from behind the counter and handed it to Sansa. “We're local, right off the Sisters near the Guildhall. Come on by any time. Ask for Osha.“

Sansa returned the smile. “Thanks, I will.” She turned back down the aisle, still mulling over the idea and gradually leaning toward getting it. Briefly she considered that the tattoo--any tattoo, but particularly that one with such clear connotations--would likely induce matching coronaries in her parents, even more so than Arya’s would. Sansa was ever held to an unfair higher standard as the “good” daughter, raised as a proper lady, always expected to be on her best behavior. Arya was free from such expectations, and she couldn’t remember whether her parents ever had any to begin with or had given up on her sister long ago. In any case, the rosy ideal they had of Sansa would be shattered when they inevitably found out about Petyr. A part of her resented the prospect of having to explain her decisions or apologize for who she’d chosen to share her life with, and another part was saddened that her own father and mother simply couldn’t--or wouldn’t--see her for who she was. They would blame Petyr for corrupting her, but he hadn’t, not really; they’d changed each other and become stronger in the process. She was about to slip the card into her bag for safekeeping (though nothing was ever truly safe from Petyr’s overly inquisitive nature) when she was jostled from behind, causing her to drop it in an effort to prevent herself from falling. She sent an annoyed look at the drunken oaf who’d run into her, but he lurched off, swaying from side-to-side in a shambolic manner that guaranteed more collisions to come.

Grumbling, she bent to retrieve the lost slip of cardstock. To make matters even worse, someone behind her emitted a wolf whistle, adding, “Back that ass up, gorgeous!” in an exaggerated growl.

She turned, snarling, fully intending on kicking whoever it was in the balls (especially if it happened to be Petyr, he’d been warned), but was astonished to see a familiar but entirely unexpected face. “Theon! You asshole!”

The lanky, cocksure form of her brother’s best friend strode over to her from one of the booths she’d passed, greeting her with a friendly grin. “Hey Sansa.” He pulled her for a hug and friendly kiss on the cheek. “What are you doing here?” he asked after stepping back.

“Arya’s looking for tattoo designs,” she explained, worrying in the back of her mind that her revelation may have pushed her sister to spring for something truly ghastly, such as an expletive on her forehead.

Theon grimaced. “Your parents are going to flip.”

Sansa had a feeling that the tattoo would go down as a minor footnote in their family history compared to the revelation of her and Petyr’s relationship. “Yeah, but she’s going to get it whether I help or not. At least this way it’ll be spelled correctly,” she reasoned. “How about you?”

“Yara has a booth this year.” He pointed over his shoulder to the stall he’d stepped away from. Sansa peered behind him and spied his sister getting ready to add to the bear skull tattoo on a customer’s chest. Yara looked up, and Sansa gave her a wave; the heavily inked woman raised the needle gun in her hand in friendly greeting back before applying it to the stoic man’s skin. “How are you?” Theon asked, drawing her attention back to him. “ I don’t think I’ve seen you since Robb’s birthday.”

“You actually remember that?” Sansa chuckled. “You and Robb were so wasted that night I thought we were going to have to drag your sorry asses to the ER.”

Theon groaned, covering his face to hide his chagrin. “Talisa tortured us the whole day after…”

A hand on her back and low murmur in her ear heralded Petyr’s return. “Here's your pretzel, sweetling.” He kissed her on the cheek as he offered her the requested treat. _What excellent timing._ She watched Theon’s eyes widen before narrowing into a glare, shifting back and forth between her and the man settling in comfortably at her side. She took the pretzel but stiffened minutely under the scrutiny, and could tell Petyr noticed when his fingers pressed more firmly into the small of her back. Sensing her hesitation, he took it upon himself to make the proper introductions. “Petyr Baelish, a pleasure,” he addressed the younger man, stretching out the hand not occupied with rubbing soothing circles over her spine out toward him in greeting.

“I know who you are,” Theon replied with hostility, not taking the offered limb. Instead, he pulled her away from Petyr with a grip on her upper arm. It was on the tip of her tongue to warn him to let her go, but that would've sounded a bit mad. Theon might have her best interest at heart (even if he was being obnoxiously patronizing about it) and was practically family, but Petyr did not respond particularly well to other men touching her. She could feel her lover tense behind her, though she suspected the reaction would only be noticeable to her. He would let her handle it unless he felt she needed help, but it didn't mean he wouldn't rend the trespassing extremity to pieces if given the opportunity. “Sansa, what the hell are you doing with this creep?” Theon asked in the loudest stage whisper she’d heard in awhile. She could imagine Petyr’s raised eyebrow without looking.

She shrugged off his hand, crossing her arms to ward off any further manhandling of her person. “It’s not really any of your business, but we’re seeing each other.”

Theon’s concerned frown deepened to a scowl. “Does Robb know?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No, and don't you dare tell him.”

“I dunno,” Theon hedged, “I think I'd be failing in my duty as a surrogate big brother if I didn't.”

“Do it, and I'll tell Robb he got crabs because you banged that hooker in his bed and not from Alys Karstark,” she threatened, waving the pretzel in his direction to make her point. The poor girl had been traumatised by the accusation and subsequent breakup. Sansa always felt bad about it, but at least she seemed happily married now, to Daryn Hornwood, if she wasn’t mistaken.

She could hear Petyr wince audibly behind her as Theon paled hilariously and gulped, “You wouldn’t.”

She bared her teeth. “Try me.” Theon looked back and forth between her and Petyr, clearly conflicted and uncertain how to proceed.

Petyr moved closer behind her, resettling his hand in its place at the small of her back, but Theon lunged toward him suddenly, gripping his shirt in tight fists, snapping, “Listen dickhead, if you ever hurt her--”

Rather than flinch, Petyr stepped into the attack, the deadly glint in his eye paired with a dangerously friendly tone startling his would-be aggressor. “Yes, yes, you’ll do me some sort of incredibly painful and perhaps permanent injury? Glad we got that out of the way,” her lover declared, plucking a stunned Theon’s hands from him with brisk efficiency. “Now, it sounds like you could desperately use some referrals for a higher class of paid company?” he drawled, amusement dripping from every word.

Flummoxed, Theon faltered, mumbling, “I’m gonna go find Arya.” He tried to appeal to Sansa once more with a look, but she kept her expression carefully shuttered.

“She went that way, toward the fire-breathers, I believe,” Petyr advised helpfully, gesturing to the back of the convention hall. Theon stomped away, neglecting to thank him for both the directions and the offer of upmarket call girls. When he was out gone, Sansa finally relaxed, unaccountably drained by the encounter. She took a bite of her pretzel; hunger was undoubtedly contributing to her foul mood, though Theon’s interference certainly hadn’t helped.

“I love watching you carry out a vivisection,” Petyr remarked, eyeing her with heated gaze, clearly (and not unexpectedly) turned on by her performance.

She swallowed the mouthful of pretzel and picked at the remainder, still perturbed. “He deserved it. He has no business telling me how to live my life,” she declared hotly, chomping on the savory baked good. Petyr hummed in agreement, and when she was finished, grasped her hand, bringing it to his mouth in order to lick the bits of salt off her fingers. She shuddered at the sensation, watching his eyes darken in response. It occurred to her that Petyr appeared no worse for wear after his food retrieval mission despite her sister’s current conniption. “Did you find Arya?” she asked, retrieving her fingers from his grip but warded off his anticipated protest by running them down his jaw, enjoying the texture of the stubble.

He raised an eyebrow. “Your sister gave me the middle finger, called me a cunt, then grabbed all the food out of my hands. Did I miss something?”

Sansa furrowed her brow, explaining, “She just found out how long we’ve been together.”

He pursed his lips “Ah. I’m guessing we’ll have to find our own ride home?”

“Yeah, I think so,” she sighed. “I suppose we can always take the train--”

“Absolutely not,” Petyr interrupted, sneering, “I refuse to breathe the recycled body odor of a bunch of homeless winos for an hour.”

“A couple years of being a lord, and suddenly you think you’re too good for public transport?” she mocked, holding in her grin.

He scoffed. “I was too good for public transport well before that.”

“Snob,” she taunted, biting her lip to hide her mirth.

“Pleb,” he fired back, eyes flashing, and the ridiculousness of the accusation made her crack finally, unable to hold her giggles. He gave her a triumphant grin before letting her go to retrieve his phone from a pocket. As she watched Petyr call for one of his employees to pick them up, she considered the man she’d twice now chosen to side with over the objections of others. Theon and Arya were likely to be the mildest expressions of disapproval her relationship with Petyr would provoke. She could only be grateful that no real violence had erupted as a consequence, Theon’s wounded pride notwithstanding. All in all, though, Petyr had managed to behave himself, a feat she hadn’t entirely been certain he was capable of but very much appreciated. He’d followed her almost without question, subjected himself to the tedious irritation of the general public and endured the caustic reprobation of her sister without complaint. The prospect of revealing their relationship to the rest of her family still filled her with dread, but it was ameliorated somewhat by the experiences of the day. That was probably Petyr’s intent from the start, the sly bastard, she thought fondly.

He hung up the phone and turned back to her, saying, “They’ll be here in twenty minutes.” He noticed her appraisal, and cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

“This...scruffy thing. It's kinda hot,” she admitted, fingers tracing over the upper edge of the scar on his chest visible in the loose neck of the ragged t-shirt. He was always so precise, obsessively restrained, and the contrast was unexpectedly appealing. She was well aware of the appreciative looks he’d been getting from the female contingent at the convention as well, which was hardly a surprise; even dressed-down, he exuded power and confidence, and between his habitual wicked grin and the lilted rasp he favored with her, he was rather irresistible--sex personified, one could argue. His arse looked quite nice in those jeans too, but she wasn’t sure it would be healthy for his ego to tell him so.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied, smugness playing at his lips. He tugged her closer, pressing her against him, lips ghosting down her neck. His voice was a purr in her ear that sparked heat in her spine that descended to settle at her core, as it always did. “While we wait, there’s a display of edible paint products over there that would look much better on you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to anyone who spots the cameo (any X-Files fans around?). Thanks for reading, and comments are always very much appreciated! Cheers!


	5. Chapter 4: Hey Mister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey Mister I really like your daughter,_  
>  _I'd like to eat her like ice cream_  
>  _Maybe dip her in chocolate_  
>  _When I'm horny like thirsty_  
>  _She's a bottle of water_  
>   
>  _It's not what ya did,_  
>  _It's not what ya didn't_  
>  _God gave her a perfect body_  
>  _And now I'm all up in it._  
>   
>  _It's not she's a tramp._  
>  _It's not she's not pure._  
>  _She just likes getting her fuck on,_  
>  _And it's good one of that I'm sure_  
>  ~Custom, _Hey Mister_

“Seven fucking hells, Sansa,” Petyr moaned, head dropping back, needing to make a concerted effort to keep his eyes open so as not to miss a single second of his love on her knees before him, lips wrapped around his aching member, curtain of copper hair brushing his thighs. He groaned as the head of his cock hit the back of her throat, then slipped deeper as she swallowed around it. She’d accosted him in his office (he being entirely willing prey, of course), evidently wanting to surprise him with this newfound aptitude--not that he’d had any complaints until now, mind.  It was apparent that she and Olyvar had smoothed over any misunderstanding when he’d happened upon them giggling over a selection of dildos a few days ago. He’d raised an eyebrow at the antics, but Sansa had deflected his curious inquiries at the time. The results were certainly worth the wait. He might be jealous of their closeness if he hadn’t known the man was bent as a paperclip. His hands curled in her hair, pads of his fingers smoothing over her scalp, clenching tighter with each sweep of her tongue. The plump red of her lips was a color more sinfully beautiful than any lipstick shade, shining with a mix of her saliva and his precum. “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you look with your mouth full of my cock?”

She had the nerve to nod, and somehow managed to smirk. “Mmm hmm,” she hummed in answer, and he couldn’t control the buck of his hips. _Minx._ A flashing light on the desk beside him drew his eye away from the much more pleasing sight. He pressed the button, thoroughly irritated. His staff knew better than to dare interrupt him with Sansa. He saw the reason why they’d taken the considerable risk a moment later. The sour, humorless visage of Eddard Stark filled the screen, hovering over a trepidatious Horas Redwyne. Sansa was undeterred by the distraction, focusing on the task she’d set herself, a hand wrapped around the base of his shaft working counterpoint to the bob of her head, taking him wonderfully deep each time, her other occupied in kneading his sac, heavy with expectation.

“What is it?” he inquired, his tone dangerously controlled.

Redwyn cleared his throat nervously. “Sir, there’s a gentleman here--”

Baelish interrupted the stammering twit. “Yes, I see. Please pass along my apologies to our guest and inform him that I’m currently occupied but will be with him as soon as possible.” He poured an extra dollop of insouciance into his dismissal, knowing full well it would be audible to his uninvited guest. He cut the mic before Eddard Stark’s indignant bluster could begin. If the police commissioner had been here with a warrant he’d have served it by now. Whatever this visit entailed, it clearly didn’t involve official law enforcement business. The self-righteous bastard could wait. He had much more important matters demanding his attention--more pleasurable ones as well, certainly.

“Yesss…” he hissed as she sped up, eyes slipping closed for a moment to savor the delicious sensation. The only thing he wanted more than to cum rutting down her throat was to make this last forever...

He opened them again when he noticed she’d withdrawn the hand playing with his balls, but when he saw where she’d relocated it to, he determined it was being put to much better use. She’d hiked her skirt up, slipping said hand under her panties, moving between her legs in time with her exquisitely hot mouth. A malevolent, utterly perverse notion took him suddenly, and he switched the audio to one-way before pressing the button to open the channel again. “Let me see, sweetling. Let Daddy see your pretty cunt,” he drawled, his grin downright feral.

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, flashing, and she emitted a noise caught between an indignant snort and a moan. Her teeth caught the sensitive underside of his member, making him growl at the sharp-sweet bite. He thought the slip more likely to stem from involuntary reaction rather than reproach, however, by the hiccup in tempo, but she didn’t stop. He could tell she was embarrassed though turned on nonetheless, as she always was despite herself when he employed such language, ever seeking to push her boundaries just a little further, to both their benefit. She acquiesced after a beat, tugging her panties down further and canting her hips to bless him with the wonderful sight of her sex, wet with her arousal. The idea that she was so turned on by giving him head was gratifying in a very deep, primal way, and only made him want more.

“Spread your pussy open, darling,” he urged, one hand braced on the desk, a finger stretched out to hold down the button that would make his every word clearly audible to his reluctant audience, his other hand threading through red locks to encourage her efforts. His commentary would be nothing out of the ordinary for Sansa either--he was always fairly vocal, at least with her. Out of the corner of his eye he espied the increasingly animated protestations of his uninvited visitor.

“You like my cock in your nasty mouth, don’t you?” Baelish licked his lips. “Beautiful,” he purred. “Stick a finger inside.” He delighted in how the obscene squelch of her frigging herself complemented the utterly filthy sounds of her lips moving over him. “Another,” he commanded. Her eyes were locked with his, heavy and heated with arousal and not a little challenge. His grin deepened; this was a game he was certainly prepared to play.

“Feels good, doesn't it?” he murmured, “But you want more, don’t you? My little girl want my thick cock filling her up instead.” At that she moaned around him, and the sensation was almost too good, obliging him to dig his fingernails into his palm to keep from cumming-- _not just yet._ In the process he’d let go of the button inadvertently. He spared a glance toward her true progenitor, enjoying the sight of Stark’s irritation boiling over to rage. He could only imagine what the great auroch’s reaction would be if he knew that it was _his_ daughter giving head (and so, so well) to _Littlefinger--_ the man he despised, looked down on, considered baser than vermin--that was who she wanted, who made her wet, whose tongue she fell to pieces under, who held her heart. Malicious glee only added to the pleasure she was already providing him.

Her hips began rocking to meet the thrusts of her own hand, the bob of her head up and down quickening to match pace. He briefly lamented the limitations of their current location; as decadently wicked as having her in his office was, if they’d made it to the bedroom he would’ve been able to finger her while she deep-throated him. As it was, she made do--dirty, filthy, _perfect little thing._ And she was all _his._

He pressed the intercom button again, voice growing hoarse as his breathing deepened. “ _Fuck--_ play with your clit, I wanna see you cum for me,” he entreated, feeling the fire build deep in his bollocks, getting closer and closer to the precipice, wanting to see her break before he shot his load in her sweet, hot mouth. Instead, to his consternation, she withdrew her hand from between her legs entirely. Before he had time to lament the loss, she’d brought it up to cup his tightening balls, then snuck behind, a finger slick with her own arousal slipping into his arse, finding the spot that instantly transformed rising pleasure into a lightning strike. Reluctantly, he let go of the button, knowing he couldn’t trust himself not to betray her identity when he came. Moments later he did so with fervor, fairly roaring her name as he emptied himself down her throat in thick spurts. When he’d finished she sat back, grinning at him as she licked her lips to chase every last drop, then gave his cock a few more light, easy strokes before patting it affectionately, looking very pleased with herself. When he could string words together to form coherent thought it was a reverent declaration; “I fucking _love you_.”

“I know,” she returned cheekily.

Abruptly, he hauled her up and planted her on his desk with a grunt. “I’ll be having these,” he growled, tearing the panties the rest of the way off and flinging them away before hiking her legs over his shoulders. He took a moment to admire--nay, _revel_ in _\--_ the glistening curls, sopping wet from her own ministrations.

“Goddammit Petyr, those were _new--_ ” Sansa protested until his mouth covered her sex. He drew her clit into his mouth, sucking and rolling it, drinking in the moans and cries he elicited from her, not at all minding the forceful tugs of her hands in his hair.

Ordinarily he would take his time, coaxing all manner of wonderful noises from her as he teased and pleasured her, but at present it was imperative that she come _right now._ He wanted to share with her father just how beautiful Sansa sounded in the throes of ecstasy as well, but sadly the chance the former would recognize her voice was too great. “So needy,” he murmured in between licks, her hips jerking in an uneven rhythm against him. He looked up to meet her gaze, her eyes wide and lost in thrall to him. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s going to make it all better,” he promised with a toothy grin.

Any objection she might’ve had to his choice of language dissolved into the sweetest of cries as he plunged two fingers in her tight channel, her walls clenching and throbbing around him, sucking the digits in like her mouth had his cock. His fingers curled to find her g-spot, thrusting in and out mercilessly. She yelped, almost leaping off the desk, and he had to press a hand over her belly to keep her still--a gratifying reaction to be sure, but a hindrance to achieving his current goals. She began chanting his name, her voice hitching as he drove her higher, rubbing the distended nub of her clit with firm circles of his flattened tongue. Soon enough he was rewarded for his efforts as she reached her peak, almost convulsing in bliss.

He denied her the luxury of a relaxing comedown, instead changing up his rhythm and angle, ignoring her protest of “too much” in pursuit of making her cum again for him. He focused on her oversensitized clit, sucking hard as she thrashed, trapped under his touch until he’d wrung another orgasm from her, finally gushing into his mouth once more. He drank her down eagerly, her legs trembling around him as she trapped his head between her thighs.

At last, he relinquished his hold on her, resting his cheek on her leg, savoring the view of her propped up on her elbows looking down at him--thoroughly debauched, demure skirt hiked up around her waist, professional blouse rumpled, the pink glow of her skin coated with a fine sheen of sweat from their exertions--she was gods damned _perfect._ The nascent stirring of his erection at the sight had him considering how he could keep her occupied for the short amount of time it would take to return to full mast, but sadly, she espied her father first, noticing the light which had been blinking incessantly while he was otherwise occupied and then the figures occupying the screen above it. Stark was now badgering Olyvar, likely threatening him with any number of grisly consequences. Despite the considerable disparity in bulk between the two men, Olyvar looked less than impressed.

“Why is my father here?” Sansa wondered, giving him a suspicious look.

Petyr shrugged. “I’ll have to find out, I suppose,” he answered carelessly. He stood, settling in between her legs and snaking his arms around her waist. She likewise sat up, threading her fingers through the mess she’d already made of his hair in a likely futile effort to fix it.

Sansa’s attention strayed back to the sight of her father making an arse of himself on the screen beside them, now gesticulating wildly. She frowned, concern furrowing her brows. “Do you think he knows I’m here?”

Petyr shook his head. “Doubtful. He’d’ve already broken down the door if he suspected anything.”

She nodded, satisfied with his reasoning. “Try not to get choked again, won’t you?” she implored with a wry quirk of her lips, favoring him with a fond expression.

He returned it with one of his better leers. “You know I only let you have that honor, my love.”

Her cheeks reddened. He found it utterly adorable that he could make her blush even after she’d had her finger up his arse, milking him dry. She thwapped him in the arm but he caught her hand before she could do more damage, bringing it to his lips. “You’re lucky I love you,” she mumbled.

He chuckled, “Indubitably.” He captured her mouth with his, seeking out the flavor of his own release from her tongue as it tangled with his. Most disappointingly, Sansa broke off the kiss all too soon, giving him a light push back in order to hop off the desk.

“I guess I’ll head upstairs then,” she sighed, buttoning her blouse and smoothed down her skirt primly as if to hide the evidence of their activities. “I have to finish the Pentoshi brief by tomorrow.”

Reluctantly, he likewise tucked himself away and zipped up his trousers. “I can’t wait to hear all about the burning controversies and fascinating intricacies of binational cheese product regulation,” he drawled slyly.

She groaned. “Ugh, stop.”

“You think I’m kidding?” he protested with false hurt. “I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

“I think you’re an ass,” she retorted with a smile she couldn’t hide, twisting around to look for the panties he’d sent flying earlier. “Where--Petyr, what did you do with them now?”

He gave her a crooked grin, leaning around her to pluck them from atop the lamp where the scrap of cloth had landed artfully draped over the shade. He was in no rush to give the item back, however, and when she saw the non-functional state of it, he didn’t have to. “Never mind,” she exclaimed, exasperated. “I don’t even know why I bother wearing them at all.” He was unbothered. If she decided to put another pair on it would give him the chance to invent more ways to divest her of them, and if she forwent underthings entirely it would offer a whole different set of delights in which to indulge.

“I’ll be up when I’ve finished dealing with your father,” he promised, slipping a hand under her skirt to squeeze her bare arse cheek, unable to resist the urge to slide his fingers in along her seam.

She pressed her lips against his for a brief final kiss before pulling away. “Lech,” she murmured with a grin, one of several affectionate pejoratives she habitually bestowed upon him.

He watched her egress from the room then began clearing up his workplace of some of the mess they’d made, planting the pair of knickers half-covered by a set of folders, as if carelessly left there. He decided to not put the effort into putting his tie back on, instead buttoning his shirt up only most of the way before throwing his jacket on with deliberate negligence, knowing his state of dishabille would goad the puritanical man to no end. He checked his appearance in the one-way mirror--still flushed and sweaty, he had the look of a man well-shagged who’d returned the favor. _Excellent._ Turning back to the screen, he noticed that Stark was beginning to turn all sorts of interesting colors. Amused, he pressed the button once more and called out, “Send him up.”

Smarmy expression in place, he made his way over to the door and unlocked it in anticipation of the battle to come. A few minutes later, his quarry came storming through, all raised hackles and bluster,  slamming the door behind him. Stark forwent his offered handshake in greeting, instead wrinkling his nose at the aura of sex that hung potently about the room.

Tactfully, Petyr ignored the slight, striding back to his desk and motioning for his guest to make himself at home, which the latter did with typical boorishness. Petyr took his seat behind the desk with a great deal more dignity. “How can I help Your Lordship today?” he inquired smoothly.

“You disgust me, Baelish,” Stark fumed with absolutely no preamble, perched in his seat with readily apparent unease and distaste as if even the item of furniture was about to proposition him at any moment.

“You needn’t trek all the way down from your ivory tower to tell me that. A text or call would have sufficed,” came his languid reply. He could see the effort it took Stark to not erupt in a volcano of righteous fury. By contrast, Petyr leaned back, propping his feet up on the desk and subtly nudging the pile of folders to better draw attention to the lacy garment that the police commissioner was expending a great deal of energy _not_ looking at.

“Baelish--” Stark shook his head, visibly having to corral his ire before trying again. “Petyr…” he ground out with palpable unease, almost choking on the syllables. Littlefinger sat up a bit straighter in his seat, not being able to help the flicker of surprise over his face. Stark had _never_ called him by his first name, unless it was immediately followed by ‘ _...Baelish, you’re under arrest for…’_

“Ned,” he answered with no small part of amusement, intrigued.

The man cleared his throat awkwardly, finally spitting out, “I need your help.”

“Oh?” he cocked an eyebrow, curious as to what could possibly motivate the paragon of self-righteous superiority to come slumming it to Flea Bottom to plead for assistance.

Stark swallowed heavily, posture ramrod straight—so imperious, even when coming to beg. The Warden of the North and self-styled a champion of the law stammered as he forced the words out--like it was physically painful for him to ask for help. “That is, if you could--”

Petyr smirked. “Easy man. Let’s have it before we both expire from the suspense.”

“Do you know these men?” Stark asked in a gruff tone, withdrawing a photograph from his jacket pocket, intending on handing it to Petyr. The latter, however, neglected to lean forward, forcing the taller man to stretch gingerly over the defiled desk. Petyr savored Stark’s grimace as he snagged the photo from his meaty grasp.

Petyr did, in fact, know them, as he signed their paychecks. _Weese and Chiswyk. Fuckwits._ They were relatively new, and, evidently, fairly incompetent. Occasionally he had employees that somehow failed to grasp the significance of the task they were entrusted with, bored or insulted by the mission of following around a college student all day. They did not last long. “I do not,” he lied smoothly, glancing back up at Stark with nary a hint of recognition sullying his gaze. “What exactly am I looking at them for?”

Stark frowned. “They’ve been hanging around Sansa’s apartment complex for the past few days. My men tried to follow them but lost the trail.”

Stupid enough to get caught but at least not quite inept enough to be traced back to Petyr’s service. Perhaps he wouldn’t kill them. _Yet._ He cocked an eyebrow in inquiry. “I assume you already tried more conventional methods before coming to me?”

“Yes,” Stark grumbled, plainly discontent.

Petyr suppressed a smile, continuing blandly. ”Does Cat know?” He hardly imagined this was a sanctioned request, and was proven correct when the man shook his head with unease. Petyr licked his lips before asking, “Have you told Sansa?” He couldn’t help the way he savored her name, though it was certainly worth it to see Stark’s eye twitch.

Stark’s moue of distaste became muddled as anger fought with concern, the effort of sustaining two conflicting emotions at once evidently too much to ask of the man’s dull features. “No, I don't want to worry her,” he replied softly.

“I see.” Petyr had to suppress a bark of laughter at the man’s willful naivete. His cluelessness somehow managed to reach new heights with each interaction. He could understand the need to protect Sansa, but he was unable to comprehend how Stark was incapable of seeing the strength and brilliance of his own daughter. Sansa had faced down a pride lions without flinching--helped orchestrate the downfall of a dynasty--and the fool thought that keeping her in blissful ignorance was the best way to ensure her safety. Not to mention her rather vehement dislike of being coddled or condescended to…

Uneasy, Stark hemmed, “I assume you’ll be wanting some sort of payment for this?”

Petyr made a show of studying the picture, deep in consideration, then looked up, addressing his opponent with a leer, tongue making a quick swipe over his lips. “Your daughter’s phone number.”

The man’s eyes bulged from his head and his face began to mottle red and white. It wasn’t an especially good look for him. Not that Petyr found Stark particularly attractive. It was a miracle Sansa had turned out as perfect as she did with such parentage. Cat clearly had more influence there, thank the gods. “What do you think you’re playing at--”

Petyr interrupted smoothly. “I’ll be needing it to track the parties following her. That is what you’re asking me to do, isn’t it?”

Stark’s jaw worked mulishly, suspicion narrowing eyes. Petyr’s own gaze never wavered under the scrutiny. After a moment of fruitless teeth grinding, the oaf relented, giving Petyr the information he’d already had almost since the day Sansa had acquired her phone.

“I’ll keep you informed of whatever I find,” Petyr asserted most insincerely. He stroked his beard, assessing Sansa’s father in calculating appraisal. “We can always discuss the terms of my payment later.” Oh, how he would have fun hanging it over Stark’s head. Perhaps he’d make increasingly inappropriate demands until the man’s tiny brain exploded. “Now, is there anything else I can offer you today? Something to drink? Cocaine? A girl? A boy? We make no judgments here,” he prodded, watching the straightlaced cop squirm. It was the little things that made life worth living, he reflected.

Stark flushed, left eye spasming as he desperately tried to hold in the impulse to either curse or arrest him. In the end, the man did neither, instead stalking out of his office in a badly controlled tantrum. He did shake Baelish’s hand as he exited, an obviously painful concession.

_That had been even more entertaining than usual._ Petyr leaned back in his chair, tucking the photograph absently into his shirt pocket and considered for a moment on how he could best use the new development to their advantage. Putting the notion aside for the time being, he surveyed the stack of paperwork he’d yet to do, but his eye strayed instead to the green scrap of lace peeking out from its strategic not-hiding place. The promise of Sansa’s presence somewhere upstairs easily won out over industrious intentions. He plucked the garment from the desk, shamelessly pressing it to his nose to savor the scent she’d left on them before slipping it into his back pocket for safekeeping.

After checking the screens to ensure Stark’s exit from the premises, he stood, closing his laptop and tucking it under one arm, then set off with a whistle to find his wayward love. The jolity was clearly alarming to the two guards posted outside his office, but he ignored them. He took the elevator to his penthouse, popping a piece of gum into his mouth carelessly. Depositing his laptop on the desk for later, he noted the quiet state of the room. Sansa usually set up shop on the largest of the couches, often spreading her papers about in a way which he would have found intolerable from anyone else. He continued his search, checking their bedroom next, then the gym, guest rooms, and both baths with no success before heading outside. As he passed by the hot tub on the way, he formulated several tactics to entice her there at some point in the evening, then filed them away for later.

He finally found her, out on the deck, stubbornly huddled in one of the lounge chairs with her legs tucked beneath her as if it were still high summer, computer open on her lap--no doubt combing through dense legalese--handwritten notes on a pad beside it. A proper southroner would’ve long ago given up on the brisk, chill temperature--not combatted much by the paltry bits of sun peeking through the clouds--but it didn’t seem to bother his wolfling a whit. She’d exchanged her skirt for jeans, and made the concession of donning a jumper. Idly, he wondered what undergarments she might’ve chosen to replace the purloined pair now residing in his back pocket. She looked up as he approached, giving him a soft smile and setting her computer to the side. “Hi.”

He perched on the edge of the chair, leaning over so her legs pressed into his thigh, grimacing at the gust of wind that cut through the material of his shirt. “You do realize it’s far too cold out here for this? There are icicles forming on your keyboard.”

“Worrywart,” she teased, looking entirely too comfortable in the first bite of winter.

He enveloped her hands in his, rubbing to restore some of the circulation in them. “Yes, how silly of me for being concerned that all your fingers make it back inside in one piece,” he returned drily.

“Your appendages were much more imperilled than mine,” she quipped, throwing his own smirk back at him. “What did my father want?”

He retrieved the photo from his pocket, handing it over to her. “Evidently he believes there are shady characters hanging around your apartment building and wants me to investigate.”

“He’s not wrong, there is a creepy man stalking me,” she cracked, grinning.  

He scowled in mock hurt. “Must you wound me so, my love?”

“It wasn’t a criticism, merely an observation,” she giggled. She glanced down at the photograph again before handing it back to him. “So he’s hiring you to find yourself?”

“So it would seem,” he mused.

Sansa shook her head, sighing.  “And how much is he paying you for this nigh impossible task?”

He tilted his head to the side in consideration, letting his fingers trace over the curve of her hip before settling at her waist. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Sansa sat up quickly, looking rather more alarmed than was warranted. “He didn’t nail down terms in writing? He’s giving you a blank check?”

“I’m not going to pick him to pieces, dearest, just have a little fun,” he made to reassure her. Petyr enjoyed bear baiting as much as the next man, but would hardly do anything to jeopardize Sansa’s affections.

“But he doesn’t know that,” she argued, brow furrowed in concern. “He needs to be more careful.”

Petyr shrugged, having long given up on Stark learning from his mistakes or developing any tendencies toward circumspection at all. “Budge over,” he requested, tugging at her lightly.

She crossed her arms. “Petyr, I'm serious, I have to finish this tonight.”

He rubbed his thumbs in the hollows of her hips, entreating, “I understand. Trust me.”

Wary, she shuffled down the oversized deck chair, allowing him to settle in behind her. He drew her to lie back against him, his arms wrapped firmly but not intrusively around her, tucking her head into his shoulder. The scratch of her pen on paper interspersed with the light tap-tap of her keyboard lulled him into a light doze. He nuzzled her neck, breathing in the sweet perfume of her skin, hand wandering up every so often to curl her hair between his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that took forever... Hope it was worth the wait! Thanks so much to everyone who expressed interest in this fic, it really motivates me to write. I'm hoping to have quicker updates from now on but we'll have to see. As always, thanks for reading, and any feedback is greatly appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to everyone who requested a "Starks find out about Petyr and Sansa" scene. Will hopefully be updated regularly. Thanks for reading!


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